


Frame of Mind

by The_Birds_And_Bees



Series: Burden [4]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Dark Comedy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Frisk pvps a sofabed, Gen, Parent-Child Relationship, let the monster fam be happy, sans is hashtag relatable, stop tearing their ship apart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 23:32:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8509858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Birds_And_Bees/pseuds/The_Birds_And_Bees
Summary: He'll take being a hypocrite, if it means this kid won't keep thinking they gotta do it all alone.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dawnwards](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnwards/gifts), [AngelDormais](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelDormais/gifts).



> A further continuation- uh..interquel! A shout out to lee-mix as well, who discussed wanting to explore this with me, and I unfortunately didn’t get a chance to see or respond until far too late. My hella fine homeslice, if this is still a concept you wish to explore, you have my blessing.
> 
> This takes place five months after the Barrier fell; three weeks after Matchmaker.

 

 

* * *

 

**Childhood should be carefree, playing in the sun; not living a nightmare in the darkness of the soul.**

 

* * *

 

It’s a new couch.

There’s a scuffle for a good twenty minutes, as the old sofa is dragged out into the front yard, swapping places with a series of boxes that quickly become scattered across the living room floor. Frisk is endeared to them; already set on carefully peeling away the tape and sliding the cardboard out from under their content, creating a fort at the bottom of the stairs. He’s got half an eye on ‘em, considering the likelihood of those boxes mysteriously disappearing into the depths of the kid’s room, never to be seen again.

Should probably do something about that, but he’s doing his best to be as useless as possible.

The other humans make that easy; Adult, male- the biggest of the lot is a burly kind of guy. The kind who looks like he could give Asgore a run for his money in an arm wrestling match. What’s hilarious is the way he’d reacted, when a skeleton answered the door. He’s pretty sure if he did have the gumption to make himself useful, he’d give the guy a coronary. It’s easier for everyone if he just, y’know, props himself up in the kitchen doorway, and pretends that’s precisely what he is. A prop.

Five months just ain’t long enough to get over it, apparently. Like Sans doesn’t watch Toriel sign off on things and hand over a tip like a hawk.

They really think monsters are the threat, here. Five months just ain’t long enough to get over that. It’s a relief to watch them all go; leave him with the peace of mind that comes with being alone with another monster, and possibly the biggest threat to everyone’s happiness he knows.

 

But hey. Details.

 

“Sans! Please, come and see! Is this not innovative?” For the early side of noon, Tori’s as perky as ever, beaming over something as simple as a new piece of furniture, waving him over to come have a look. Far be it for him to deny her, but he’s not seeing the innovation, here.

“S’real blue, Tori. _Sofa_ scinating.”

She titters, waving a paw as she tugs at the couch cushions. “That is not the innovative aspect, my friend- behold.”

It takes her a minute, actually. Thing’s not made for a monster of her stature, and the only thing she manages to do in the first thirty seconds is get her paw stuck, between the back of the couch and the black supporting, but with a creak, it eventually lifts up, giving him a better idea of what’s to come.

It’s a bed. Couchbed. Bedcouch. Some kind of amalgamate between the two, and it’s fitting in a way that has him hoping Alphys never sees it.

Frisk’s expression is pretty close to what he’s feeling, honestly; a mix of surprise and trepidation, like they’re as keen for the inevitable explanation as he is.

“Humans call this a fold out couch. As we do not have a spare room, it seems appropriate that we acquire something by way of compensation, does it not?” Her eyes, warm and vibrant, look to him-- meaningfully, which is the entire problem. They didn’t need this sort of thing before.

But now, he’s spent the last three weeks camped out on the couch, most school nights.

Frisk looks like the couch has personally insulted them. Slowly, they back into their box fort, and slam the ‘door’ shut.

“S’pose it does.” It’s not like they don’t have guests, sometimes. She’s been working hard to repair things with Asgore; they got royal duties that require long nights. Undyne and Alphys have anime nights with Frisk most Friday’s; would be nice if they, uh, didn’t have to take the kid every time one of those occurred. There’s a whole slew of reasons a tiny cottage at the edge of town could do with an extra bed, but still.

She implicates that it’s all for him anyway.

 

He’s not sure what she wants him to do with that.

 

* * *

 

Frisk’s nightmares run like clockwork, most nights. Tori puts ‘em to bed around 9pm with or without his help (mostly without) and the ensuing fever dreams hit somewhere just after midnight.  All that’s left to decide is whether or not to wander into their room when the time’s up, or chat with Toriel- y’know, until the screams start.

He’d like to say he’s right there with them most nights, but he’s not. There’s something about watching the moment it all kicks in; the part where their expression shifts from lax and open to scrunched up in distress that, heh, he hasn’t got the stomach for.

But it’s not like Tori’s up there waiting for it either, so Sans supposes it’s not that bad. Or maybe there’s just some solace to be found in her being just as scared as he is, of what she’ll witness if she sticks around.

Boy. One cup of ketchup sure does imply a lot of guilt to it.

He stirs a phalanx in the sticky concoction, gaining a quiet titter for his effort. Helps to have a kid in the house; there’s no short supply of tissues and napkins, that’s for sure, and he’s already got a small pile of them beneath his elbow. At the opposite side of the table, Toriel daintily sips her tea, from a cup that’d count as a mug for any person of lesser stature. She still makes it seem delicate, somehow.

“Got another one for ya.” A lazy rumble in her direction, eye sockets barely open enough for the whites inside to look in her direction. She hums, an indication for him to go on, and thus, he does. “Guy walks into a bar with a block of asphalt. “A beer please,” he shouts. “And one ‘fer the road.””

That delicate appearance is ruined the moment she snorts into her cup, drops of liquid flying everywhere. She looks better like that, in his opinion.

“My dear friend, I believe you are cheating.”

“Oh yeah? How d’you figure?”

“I have seen this ‘Grump Games’ the children speak of. They were especially excited to show me the one with all the jokes.” He raises his hands in surrender, smile easing into something more genuine as he notes those distinctive crinkles at the edges of her eyes. Like mother like kid; always easy to tell what really gets their goat.

“Y’caught me. Although I’m pretty surprised the kids wanted to show you _that;_ it’s uh… a little out of the scope of a school environment, ain’t it?”

“They were equally as excited to skip certain jokes.” Oh, he’ll bet they were. “But I have learned one for you; what did the sea say to the shore?”

“I dunno; what did it say?”

“Nothing, it simply _waved._ ” Funnier than the joke itself is the inflection she puts into her voice; so regal that she may as well be ordaining a decree to the general populace. It’s his turn to huff, a series of guffaws that she takes as a victory, smiling from ear to ear as her laughter joins his own.

One of the best things in life, right there. Laughter being contagious.

Second best thing; Tori’s a lady who can appreciate a pause. When the humour dies down, she doesn’t make to speak immediately, and neither does he. No reason to cover it.  If he really thought on it, maybe Sans would admit to himself that that’s a good half of the reason he keeps coming back in the evenings; to have a laugh, sit in silence, discuss junk that’s sometimes meaningful, sometimes not.

The kitchen is tidy, but not too tidy. Dishes have been left in the drying rack, ready to be put away come morning. She’s got one too many tea towels out, one with a white and yellow flowery pattern just resting on the bench. Frisk’s school bag is resting near the doorway, half open with a hastily shoved in jumper hanging out. It’s a little sample of being lived in; a screenshot of the life she’s been leading with her kid up till this point, with all it’s joys and tribulations.

He can see the couch through the doorway, a light blue implication of change and addition he’s not willing to look at further. Just knows that it’s change. Things like that become painfully obvious, after so long of expecting repetition.

“You are correct, I feel,” Toriel comments idly, and the conversation picks up like it never left. Seamless. “These ‘Grump Games’ are not intuitive for children whilst at school. Did you know humans have developed school networks that allow for certain websites to be blocked? I feel the children may be rather dismayed when they are unable to access them.”

Her lack of literacy with computers makes a lot of sense, he supposes, but it’s still something else, hearing about all the things she’s just discovered. Makes him wonder if he’d ever been that enthusiastic, back in the old days. When computers came half-busted from the junkyard, and creating a kit for home meant hours of picking things apart, putting them back together.

“It’s a big, wide internet though, yeah? Pretty sure there’s stuff they shouldn’t be looking at anyway.” There’s a joke here. He knows there is, and if he had a tongue, he’d bite it. Good thing he doesn’t have a tongue. “Bad ideas are practically _porn_ on it.”

“Sans!” She goes to smack him, laughing too hard to notice the way he shifts casually to the side. The muffled thunk of her paw hitting the table calls that a wise move. “My friend, you _mayo_ had too much sauce.”

“You’re right, I’m _soy_ sorry.” His grin doesn’t actually have the ability to widen; but it feels like it does, in moments like these. She’s already breathless, holding up a hand for MERCY and he’s sorely tempted to press on. It’s a good night when he’s got her in tears, a concept that’d have a few people shooting him some sceptical looks.

Frisk conveniently intrudes. As a scream rips through the air, he’s out of the kitchen and hitting the edge of the bed before her laughter fades.

It’s nice to pretend he’s got something good waiting downstairs, after all this.

 

* * *

 

 

In the mornings, he can’t begrudge either occupant the inability to keep quiet. He’s the intruder, not them, so when Toriel’s busy making breakfasts and lunches, and Frisk feels the rare (and rightfully encouraged) urge to chatter, it’s not their responsibility to keep it down. Heck, he’s slept through far worse- but there’s something to it that has him coming back to consciousness anyway. Might be the smell; fresh cooked food that’s actually edible. It’s definitely what gets him off the couch.

It’s not what keeps him hanging out in the doorway, hands shoved into his pockets. That’d be Tori and Frisk; one sedate born to mom carefully packing food with a kid on her hip, quietly mumbling around the piece of toast in their mouth. Something about cardboard and a project, something something platypus.

He’s got no idea. Bad enough being conscious at this hour; Sans isn’t about to put any effort into thinking.

Frisk is the first to take note of him, lips curving into a grin around their piece of toasty bread, and he offers a little wave that’s readily returned, before slouching his way over to the table. Like a guy that wasn’t just leering from the doorway for a good ten minutes.

“Good morning, Sans.” Toriel says cheerfully, and he’s pretty sure he manages a few symbols of affirmation as his chin meets his sleeves, well and truly ready to be an immovable lump until a bowls of whatever she’s got bubbling merrily on the stove makes its way in front of him. Smells like oats and honey. “How is the fold out lounge? I do hope the mattress was comfortable.”

“S’all good, Tor’- I slept like a baby.” Over her shoulder, Frisk takes a few decisive bites of toast, cheeks puffing out to make room. His resulting narrowed eyes gain a rather muffled giggle, right before Toriel presses a loving kiss to the mop they call hair, and sets them down. They take the seat next to him without qualms, finishing the last few bites of toast without swallowing.

Human skin is the weirdest thing. He gives their cheek a poke, scoffing a little when they wave a hand; always gentle, this one. Least wary he’s ever had to be about anyone- accidental hurt isn’t their forte.

Pretty sure that if they wanted to hurt him, he’d know about it.

Some days, they all get the time to sit about and chat. Today isn’t one of those. Tori bustles in and out of the kitchen, and he keeps half an eye on Frisk as the move from toast to porridge, scoffing it down like they’ll never get to eat again. They’ve filled out a lot since the Underground; practically not even the same kid. And they’re more than old enough to clean up after themself, so long as he makes a few jokes about the food smeared across their face.

Yep. Those napkins are a pretty handy feature in this household.

The two leave hand in hand; he’d see ‘em out to the car, but- nah. Easy enough to offer a wave from where he’s seated, sparing a glance to the dirty dishes before leaving them where they are. Tori’ll get back to it.

Same can be said for that couch; folded out and clean sheets snug across the mattress. The blanket’s been cast off to one side, pillow on the floor; in comparison to the usual, it’s probably, uh. It’s probably a little too good for him.

Considering that mess is solely on him, he should probably take a whack at straightening it out.

He leaves the house without doing a thing.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t see why you c-can’t just, keep this in your own place.” It’s not something he hasn’t heard before, following Alphys into her work shed with an extra slouch to his step. S’only Thursday, so if he wants anything close to the amount of sleep he’s used to, he’s gonna have to hurry up here. Al doesn’t quite understand that; she fumbles with a set of keys as thick as her arm, just to get the door open; why she needs that many is a question he doesn’t bother asking.

Busy lady, this scientist. She likes doing things. Humans and monster alike enjoy her doing things. He’d eat a ketchup bottle if she didn’t have a key to every lab in the city.

“Don’t have the room. ‘Sides, someone’s gotta _test_ your patience.” She rolls her eyes at him, not even twitching, and he’s- y’know, proud of her, and junk. Not every monster’s thrived on the Surface; she doesn’t fall into that category.

“W-whatever. J-just, do what you gotta do.” Her work shed, as it’s been dubbed, was already attached to the house when she and Undyne bought it. A few modifications, and it was good to go; soundproof, radiation-proof, proof-proof. All the proofs a scientist could need to conduct whatever the hell in the privacy of her own backyard.

Not that she didn’t have to be careful. Apparently, humans have something called ‘ethics’; a whole lot of Alphys’ past works didn’t exactly fall into those guidelines.

Turns out, experimenting on your own species is kind of illegal, up here. Who knew?

His dinky little set up in the corner barely takes up a few square feet; just a machine and a desk, piled high with notes and folders he didn’t see any sense leaving behind, and a manila folder chock full of the latest details. She’s got no idea what it’s all for.

He gave up explaining it all to her, around the fiftieth time he’d tried. At the least he’s still around to view it all, even if he can’t quite remember where- or even how-

Eh. Doesn’t matter. She at least understands how to print things, and that’s one job he doesn’t have to do for himself, pulling a notepad close and flicking through the most recent measurements.

Most of his attention is on the evenings, these past three weeks. That’s where the most activity occurs; half aborted push backs that almost breach the event horizon entirely, quickly petering off to smaller leaps and jumps as the kid gets more conscious of what’s happening.

In comparison to a few weeks ago, it’s getting better. Slowly. Wouldn’t even know it was if he didn’t have an eye out for it.

“Hey Al,” She answers him with a distracted hum across the way, already lost in her own work. “Might not be your field, but call me curious, here; why do people dream?”

“Dream? That’s- well, you’re- you’re right that it’s not my field, and findings aren’t conclusive on the subject, b-but, there’s some theories.” He lifts a hand and waves, urging her on. “W-well, the most common seems to be that our minds are processing what we- uh, what we’ve collected during our day. Our emotional state. So, f-for someone who’s uh, learning, new things, they’re more likely to dream than others, due to increased activity in the brain.”

“Yeah..?” Well ain’t that interesting? He looks down at his notepad, tapping a pen against it idly. “So what about nightmares? And I’m talking continuous ones.”

“Well that would depend. If we were going by the th-theory of dreams being part of the brain’s attempts to p-process, then it could be an indication that the mind isn’t- isn’t exactly working so well. Theories like that have led to- lead to different styles of therapies for trauma, based on the concept that the mind isn’t capable of p-processing things, sometimes.” A click of nails against the floor; Alphys hovers by his side, fingers twisting together anxiously.

“I-is Frisk still having nightmares? I mean, when they stay over here I just...stay awake all night. S-some of the things they say really,” A nervous smile. “Really get to Undyne. I was thinking maybe it was just, b-being in a strange house, maybe?”

“Nah. It’s not just being in a strange house.” She looks uncomfortable, and Sans wishes he had the ability to change his expression. Peg it down into something a little more neutral, rather than whatever’s gracing it right now.

“W-well, there’s also a theory that dreams don’t actually mean anything, s-so, there’s that!” Overly cheerful, like she’s imbuing him with the best news he’s heard in his life. Maybe, if she stopped twitching, he’d be more inclined to think she believed it.

“There is that. Thanks, Al.” He’s got the urge to push a phalanx against the bridge of bone between his eye sockets; it’s probably still too early, for this kind of talk. No theories relating to the SOUL, on this one; he doesn’t need to ask to know. “Little too much to expect that kid’s head to be filled with sunshine and lollipops, heh. Not after what they’ve been through.”

_Not after what we put them through_ goes unsaid. Doesn’t even need to be said; she looks guilty all the same, casting her eyes off to the side with a minute nod, before turning back to her own studies.

Al. She’s doing better up here; thriving, but there’s a lot of things she’s still gotta answer for, just like everyone else. He’s got a private betting pool set up, all about when the first genuine apology will come. Who from.

The odds against him are higher than he likes.

A quiet sigh, and it’s back to business. Last night; two peaks. Night before, four peaks. Night before, one. It’s a system intermittent with smaller findings, something a little more concentrated, here and there; not breaching the event horizon, but sitting comfortably below it. And most of that sits in the night time, with one or two during the day-

One or two...or five, during the day. Squinting, Sans leans closer, phalanges flicking back through the paperwork, checking and rechecking. Three weeks ago and yesterday; the activities changed a bit. A lot.

So, there’s a question he has to answer.

“Thanks again, Al. I gotta go feed my pet rock.”

“Oh, just g-get out of here.” She tosses a ruler his way; it misses its mark by miles, and he throws one more wave over his shoulder as he steps out the door. Concrete gives way to grass and dirt as he wanders across the edge of the school oval, finding a good spot (not too close, not too far) and settling down against a tree trunk, content to doze for the duration of his investigation. Just to confirm the findings, mind.

A panicked, unconscious mind trying to slam through the event horizon, and a kid jumping back through their SAVE points at school are two very different issues, after all.

 

It’s hard to say which needs his attention more. 


End file.
